


Charondipity

by DarkwingJones



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Nothing explicit just heavily implied, and thankfully interrupted before it begins, the warnings in this are bc the first employer in this is really gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 22:35:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15805911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkwingJones/pseuds/DarkwingJones
Summary: Charon goes through employers like tissues, but this one is different.





	Charondipity

**Author's Note:**

> Probably just a one-shot??? Idk man every time I write, something awful happens in my life and/or I get a massive upheaval so LET'S SEE WHAT COSMIC FUCKERY THIS UPENDS OVER MY HEADS, CHILDREN

The first time they meet, it's in an old settlement just outside what used to be a town in Alabama. Charon doesn't remember how he got there--doesn't remember most of the things that have happened after the vault dweller died all those years ago. He'd tried to make sure that Charon would be taken care of, even going so far as to write his contract into his will, but things like that mattered little after the bombs fell. Charon had been invited to watch his former employer's last words burn away in the hearth of the man who had killed him, and so the contract changed hands.

That was two, maybe three employers ago.

His current employer--a man named Walleye--was much like most of the others before him: arrogant, entitled, and unnecessarily cruel. He ordered Charon to kill like one's brain ordered lungs to breathe, and it made no difference to him whether Charon's bullets mowed down friend or foe, because men like Walleye never really made any friends, did they? Exceptions were rare, few and far between; everyone was fair game, because Walleye wasn't interested in dealing with slavers and slaves, and the less resistance now, the more resources later. Charon never bothered to argue with his logic, of course. A man like Walleye never listened to anyone else's opinion, so telling him that killing everyone was "bad for business" was a waste of breath, never mind that his word was law. It probably didn't even matter to Walleye that he was killing his own sources of income, so to speak--he couldn't very well rob settlements if he left no one alive to rob the next time. But questioning his employer wasn't in the contract, so Charon didn't.

Walleye was in one of his moods. The lack of chems and bloodshed was making him itchy and irritable, and the others in his little band of raiders made themselves scarce whenever he came near. The relief among them was almost palpable by the time they spotted the little town in the distance; shoulders sagged, long breaths were exhaled, and every eye surreptitiously went to Walleye. Every eye except Charon's. He knew what he would see: Walleye would be smirking. He always did when he spotted prey.

"We'll wait until nightfall," said Walleye, grinning with teeth he'd had sharpened into points. "Once it's dark enough, Charon, go in and kill every man and old-timer you can find in this cesspit. I want the women and children rounded up and brought to me. We're gonna have fun tonight."

Charon scowled and looked his gun over, muttering, "Yes, sir."

It was one of Walleye's more disgusting predilections, and Charon was grateful for the silence that overtook his mind when the contract overpowered his conscience. It went down easier than he anticipated, but that wasn't saying much; Charon always prepared for the worst situation. It was barely past midnight before all of the survivors were on their knees in the building that acted as the town hall, their quiet sobbing filling the night air in a way that choked Charon more than the smoke coming from the towering bonfires they'd built to burn the dead. Walleye was just wrapping up his usual spiel meant to scare the captives into submission, waving around a yellowed slip of paper and gesturing to the massive ghoul with the gun behind him. As long as he held Charon's contract, he was invincible.

As always, Walleye got first pick of the chems and the company, and tonight, he gravitated towards the children. Charon's jaw tightened as Walleye picked three of the six--a young boy and two girls--and only then did he allow the rest of the gang to come into the town hall and squabble over the leftovers. Charon accompanied Walleye to the nicest of the buildings and acquiesced when Walleye told him to fuck off, though the contract prohibited him from going very far. Charon dropped his pack by the front door and sat in the dirt outside, leaning back against the sheet metal siding with a heavy sigh.

He was tired. They hadn't stopped at a settlement for three weeks, and the daily grind through overgrown ruins and gunning down mutated wildlife had begun to take its toll. Charon carefully checked over his muscles and massaged the ones that ached the most, rolling his head to get the kinks out of his neck before relaxing and pulling over his belongings. He was halfway through pulling his gun cleaning oil from the depths of his pack when he heard a shout from inside, and he was on his feet and through the door by the time Walleye called his name, choking and panicked.

Charon took the stairs three steps at a time, shouldering open the only door with candlelight seeping through the cracks just in time to see Walleye's limp, headless body fall forward onto the floor, blood spurting onto the cowering children huddled, naked, against the wall. Walleye's teeth clicked against the toe of Charon's boot as the ghoul stepped into the room, eyes wide and contract _screaming. Failure! **Failure!**_ Walleye was dead at his feet, and now he had no one to follow, no purpose, no--

There was a child he didn't recognise. Charon's gun ticked up toward them, more an absent-minded reflex as his mind struggled to process what he was looking at: a child, face dark and dirty, throwing gore-smeared razor wire aside and digging through Walleye's pockets for the contract. The fragile, now blood-smeared piece of paper disappeared into the child's shirt, a wicked-looking knife replacing it in their hand. The child pointed the blade at the body of Walleye at their feet without a shred of hesitation, hazel eyes reflecting the fire from the candles around the room like portals into hell itself, mind full of a fury that burned too hot for such a young body.

"Help me kill the rest of them," the child commanded, and so the contract changed hands.


End file.
